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She gave herself a mental shake. She would not embark on this adventure fearing the worst. Robbie commanded the respect of his people, and he was certain the clan would come around. Flora though so, too. She must hope it would be so, believe it, and do her part to make it happen.
It was as though Flora could hear her thoughts. “It will be all right, I know it,” she whispered. “Robbie is a good man.”
Katherine could only manage a weak smile. “I know that,” she replied. And she did. It was true. She squared her shoulders, held her head high, and marched beside Flora right into the heart of the milling throng of tartan.
The men parted to let them pass, many of them calling out their exuberant good wishes to Flora, who was all smiles in return and paused to greet several by name. One or two bobbed their heads politely in Katherine’s direction, but the lack of genuine warmth was clear enough.
The main guests waited for them by the church door. Stephen and Robbie stood in the centre of the group, both quite magnificent in their finest clothes. Robbie had adopted the Scottish tradition. He wore his plaid kilt, with a length of MacKinnon tartan slung around his shoulders over a fine white shirt. His boots were of good leather and topped off by thick knee-length stockings of the same red and green as his kilt. He actually did look exceptionally handsome.
The bridegrooms were accompanied by Richard and Frances and their rowdy offspring. Charles and Matilda were there, too, with baby Charlie.
No one here is kin to me.For the first time that she could recall since the death of her brother, Katherine felt alone.
Now, it seemed that Robbie read her mind. Ignoring the usual conventions, he strode to meet her, drew her into his arms for a firm hug, then tipped up her chin with his fingers and kissed her.
Several of the clansmen closest cheered and slapped one another on the backs.
Katherine’s apprehension eased slightly. Her new husband was starting as he meant to go on, showing that she was wanted, accepted.
The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur. Katherine stood beside Robbie and made her responses when required. She had been taught some Latin as a child so vaguely understood the rhythmic chanting of Father Ambrose, the village priest pressed into service for this marriage. Had Stephen and Robbie been prepared to delay longer, they might have been wed in loftier surroundings, Durham Cathedral, perhaps. Or Edinburgh.
Katherine was relieved that no one had insisted upon a more grandiose affair. She preferred to be here, in the place she knew, the chapel she had worshipped in for as long as she could remember.
If asked to recall the details of her wedding afterwards, she would not be able to come up with more than the vaguest of impressions. Almost before she knew it, the formalities seemed to be over. They emerged from the cool shade of the church into glorious morning sunshine, to be greeted by clapping, cheering, and a deluge of flower petals.
Katherine expected to walk back to the castle, but Robbie steered her around the side of the church, amid much merriment and glad-handing from his clansfolk. Now, they seemed more inclined to include Katherine in their hearty congratulations, one or two of them even demanding the chance to kiss the bride.
“Keep yer paws off me wife, Jamie MacKinnon,” Robbie growled, “or must I brain ye?”
The man seemed unoffended by the threat and beamed at his laird. “Aye, well, I can see why ye might want tae keep the lassie tae yersel’…” He shouldered another tartan-clad well-wisher to one side. “Let the lady through, ye great gowd.”
They reached Robbie’s huge grey stallion which he had tethered behind the church. Stephen and Flora were already mounted on the marquis’s warhorse and ready to leave. Robbie clasped his hands and offered them as a mounting aid. Moments later, Katherine found herself perched in the saddle, and her husband of just a few minutes swung up behind her. He flicked the reins, and they were off.
The two stallions ambled up the slight hill, leaving the rowdy throng to follow on behind. The only sound was the clopping of the horses’ hooves. Katherine heard the occasional giggle from Flora but could not tell what was being said. She supposed she should make conversation with Robbie but had not the faintest idea where to start. What was customary on such occasions?
She blurted the first thing to enter her head. “The way you speak, it is different, with me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
She turned in the saddle so as to face him. “Just now, when you spoke to that man, the one who wanted to kiss me…or at least that is what I think he said.”
“Ah, yes.” He nodded. “Wee Jamie. He meant no disrespect.”
“It is not that,” Katherine replied. “The way you spoke to him, it was not… I could barely comprehend your words.”
“I daresay. The Scots’ way of speaking is very different from yours, and I shall try to remember in future.”
“I was not complaining. I just wondered about it. How do you manage to sound so…so English when you choose to?”
Now he laughed out loud. “I doubt if I ever sound exactly English, Kat. But I have spent a great deal o’ my life at the Scottish court as well as many others around Europe, an’ in such circles a more moderated way of speaking serves me better. But when I am at home, or among my own clan, I quickly fall back intae the old ways.”
“Oh. I suppose that would be it. I noticed when Stephen and I came to visit Roxburghe at Easter that you were more…more…”
“More Scottish?” he prompted helpfully.
“I suppose so. But if I am to be your wife…”
“Youaremy wife, Kat. The priest just said so.”
